Drink With Me
by CoalTit
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire survive the barricades along with Marius and Valjean, not that they know it. However a certain police inspector also knows they survive, what will happen to the dreamer and the drunkard?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The roar of gunfire echoed in the otherwise empty streets. There were the screams of the dying and the wounded, broken bodies littering a barricade. There was a louder roar as a canon fired sounding briefly then silence broken once more by the sound of gunfire. Only the students on the barricade were hardly firing, most killed. With the loss of their leader and the flag fallen it was only a matter of time.

Adrien Enjolras lay half buried under rubble and the red flag of freedom that he'd been waving to frantically try and get support when he'd been knocked over by Nicholas Grantaire. With both unconscious – though one due to drunken stupor – when the soldiers of the National Guard came to check for any more living they were taken for dead after a mere kick.

Valjean had already left with Marius just before the search for survivors started, watched only briefly by one Javert. The convicts escape with one of the traitors not going unnoticed. However before he could give chase he was called away to monitor the search for the living and to give orders as to where they would be taken to be killed. Not one of the traitors would survive while he was there.

The grisly process of searching among the dead carried on throughout the remainder of that day and into the next day, before such was called off due to the more pressing need to force the peace and prevent any more uprisings occurring as an aftermath.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A/N: Well I've been meaning to write this for a time… and this is only a short bit which is whats been written so far. Uhm I promise bad grammar and everything else? Caution major hint at E/R (Enjolras Grantaire) don't like don't read. Also hints at abusive relationship between J/E in the past (Javert Enjolras). Again don't like don't read. Written with plenty of help from Sparrah ^_^ – who's done most of Grantaires writing.

Enjolras couldn't help his faint gasp of pain as he woke up. Or at least he thought he woke up anyway. His body ached, and he felt himself starting to wretch. The stench of death was near on overwhelming, leaving him even more confused. This was at odds with the darkness. A deep inky black pierced in places by blinding areas of light… like stars but bigger, or smaller. He tried to move to spit out the bile in his mouth, wanting rid of the bitter sweet taste. That was when he became aware of a warm weight on his lower torso – and that he couldn't feel his legs. A low despairing groan escaped as he looked down to see just what it was, breath catching in his throat almost choking him.

"Nicholas…. no…please…not you…" he moaned out lowly his voice cracking in a futile attempt to keep tears back.

So sure that his drunken friend had died was he that he startled when Grantaire gave a drunken snort. Slowly, with great pain he moved a hand to ruffle the tousled hair, freezing as he took in the distorted form. He was almost sure the hand wasn't his. It bore no resemblance to what he remembered his hand last looking like. It was like some… weird unknown thing… that didn't belong to him. No surely this swollen limb couldn't be a hand, painted blacks, purples yellows and greens predominantly of vicious bruises. Reds and rusty browns of crusted dried blood however also showed through.

He gagged as he remembered just what had happened; shaking violently as the pain came crashing back to him. He felt the world go dark vaguely hearing someone calling his name, mixed with the memories of the pain as a booted foot came down on his hand. He'd refused to let him see the plans. Him, who was he? His mind wouldn't let him remember. The barricades. So much death. The people didn't rise, he'd doomed them all. _Adrien! Adrien!_ That voice was there more insistent now. He tried to tell them to let him rest, that he was tired; he vaguely heard what sounded like himself mumble something.

Grantaire shook him by the collar again, bent over him, legs straddling his chest, foreheads pressed together, slurring in a drunken rage, "Adrien, you shtupid bashtard, if y'died, ah'll kill ye twice, shtupid dreamer." At first, Enjolras wasn't sure if the man was some ghost or not. Only when the heady scent of hot breath and the reek of wine reached his nose with it could he tell that yes, Nicholas Grantaire was alive, well, and in need of a good cleaning out of his mouth.

Enjolras couldn't help his low groan trying to push him away "l…lehme…. rest…. please…." he hissed out eyes flickering open briefly relief showing mixed through with pain. "Just….a…short rest Ni…cholas…. make the pain stop" he mumbled barely coherent. "my legs have vanished," he added on dazedly, not having taken stock that they were still there, just lacking feeling. He frowned a bit confused by this, though comforted by Grantaires rage at least. It meant that he was awake and not dreaming. "Have your wounds addled your head? Your legs are here, Adrien." Grantaire looped his arms around the man after a moment–double vision never favored him–and hoisted Enjolras onto his shoulders. Seems this is as close as I'll get to his cock for a good while, he thought to himself as he set off down the shattered remnants of the barricade toward the cobblestones beneath…somewhere.

As he'd been lifted a cry escaped Enjolras' lips. That had hurt, and it had felt almost as if something had been ripped out of him. He was unaware of the wound that was bleeding where part of the barricade had sliced into him. This pained cry hadn't gone unnoticed. From the shadows a sallow faced individual watched, eyes mere slits as he observed this movement of events with a wolf like interest. There was no kindness in his eyes, nor in his face, indeed he gave off a cold callous aura to his being. There was a slight sneer on his face as he started to move on. So, the leader had survived. This should prove of interest to him. It might even grant him some further enjoyment. The drunkard was unimportant and too stupid to be a threat. The leader was his target now; it would grant him some amusement between hunting for Valjean. Silently he stalked off once the two were out of sight to start his planning.

The drunkard stumbled on; sober enough to keep to his feet, driven by the adrenaline thudding in his brain now that he felt blood on his shirt. He muttered under his breath–just what, he wasn't sure–as he made his way toward his home. All he knew was that he was speaking to the limp figure borne on his shoudlers. Grantaire shook his head, more in disbelief at their still being alive than the sad events of the last few hours. Little Gavrouche filled full of shot, his body lying broken before the barricade. All their allies, their comrades in arms, the ones his Apollo had led to their deaths… Well, they'll never make fun of Nicholas Grantaire again, will they? he thought to himself, a slice of malice creeping into his wonderings. Setting those feeling aside, he mounted the stairs and found his way to his bed, placing Enjolras upon it.

The former leader, who'd led them, was a pale wisp of what he used to be, bleeding heavily from the wound to his lower back. His breathing was shallow; his eyes were closed however as if he was just resting. The only sign of his still being among the living besides the slight rise and fall of his chest was a faint frown that marred his brow. Even that was starting to smooth, his skin cool and clammy to the touch as more and more of his lifeblood was lost. His legs had no feeling, though he was aware of having been placed on something warm and soft. He just felt like he was feeling everything from a distance. Hearing everything from that same distance, almost deafened by the roar of his heartbeat. Odd. Heartbeats weren't normally this loud were they? He didn't want to die though. How would Nicholas survive without him? What…. he was struggling to think any more his brain struggling to respond by now.

Grantaire was moving as fast as his stumbling frame would allow, grasping sponges and gauze and bandages, many, many bandages. He stuck a needle into his finger when he grabbed it, swearing at the top of his voice and getting the thread spooled around his hand as well. He set himself to work, pouring some brandy to cleanse the wound. He may not have been a doctor, but he'd seen many a drunkard, himself included, sewn up by the barkeep, and damn it all if some part of his brain didn't understand that it was simple as putting a fresh button on a shirt or darning a hole. He was good at darning holes, so he told himself. He could do this. So he told himself. No, no, no, no, no, I MUST do this! "You'll be here after I'm done," he found himself whispering. "You'll be here, my Apollo, and you'll speak to me. You'll shee me. Your Nic'lash. Then it'll jusht be a matter of getting through th'guard and out to the country. Maybe we can hijack Mariush'sh lover'sh boat or something…" he planned to himself, to his Enjolras, his Apollo, his Adrien.

A smile showed on Adriens face hearing those words no matter how distant they were, half drowned out by the roar of his own heart. He'd not felt the pain of the wound being cleansed, despite the alcohol content of the brandy. Nor had he felt the pain of the the wound been sewn up. He found it easier instead to focus on Nicholas' words that faint frown showing as he focused on what he was saying. He couldn't muster the energy however to respond, staying how he was, slowly colour returning to his skin, his breathing stabilising first. It had taken a week for him to even open his eyes slightly. He was still weak though, trying to move but not posessing the strength. He looked around trying to work out where he was. He tried to lick his dry lips but with little success with his whole mouth also being dry. He blinked trying to get his vision to focus properly, and blinked again. Slowly the focus returned, not that it told him much as to where he was. The surroundings were unfamiliar to him.

A hand appeared in his line of sight, moving up to sweep the sweat-sodden hair from his eyes. "Mon amor." Grantaire smiled, his own wounds tended to. He looked a bit the wounded revolutionary–a bandage over the gash on his head, a few here and there around his arms and belly, one around his leg. Some fool had bayoneted him there, or shot or something. He wasn't sure what. His stomach ached, but he ignored the pangs until he was sure Adrien wanted for nothing. There had been a faint flinch at the hand inititally, until he realised it wasn't going to hurt him. He was trying to take stock still "m….leg….s.." he whispered out his voice cracking and rough from disuse. He looked up at Grantaire confused. He couldn't understand why he couldn't feel them. Enjolras was more than aware of every other area of his body, namely the dull throbbing pain, or the aches and hurts, depending on where abouts he was focusing on. He could also feel that sick feeling, like he wanted to wretch but nothing was there.

"You've lost a lot of blood, Adrien," Grantaire whispered, "and…I'm not sure if you've hurt your back or not…" He looked down at his hands, ashamed. Ashamed at his lack of knowledge, ashamed at not being able to find a doctor to bring to him. The people were frightened, kept locked inside by curfews and constant patrols of the national guard. Enjolras frowned trying to understand "the people….the students?" he asked confused, almost frantically trying to reach for him. He didn't understand what had happened, or his mind was trying to deny the truth. He stared at Nicholas desperate to know. Grantaire leaned his head down, pressing their foreheads together. "Most are dead, Adrien, if not all." He bit his cheek. "The people didn't come to our aid." He shook his head. Enjolras shook his head in denial "please don't joke with me like this Nicholas" he hissed out lowly.

Grantaire licked his lips, then bit them, along with his tongue for a moment. "Adrien, I wish to God I was."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A/N: Sorry this ones a bit short, once again luff Sparrah for the epic Grantaire. Muse was a bit low on this one mind so yeh sorry again it's a tinsy bit short compared to the mammoth on the last chapter ^.^;;

Enjolras stared at him blinking stupidly. His mind was trying to comprehend and accept that dreadful truth that he'd been trying to hide from. That all those carefully laid plans had gone so wrong. The guilt didn't initially hit straight away, his mind too caught up with the thoughts of the planning wasted. When it did he started to shake his eyes turning cold and demanding, anger deep within, not aimed at anyone but himself, seeking for some outlet.

"Why?" he asked, the question hissed out. His eyes focused on Nicholas, shaking more. He reached up to grasp him, eyes wide and frantic. A confused expression crossed Grantaire's face, which relaxed itself into a singular frown of understanding and something else, though he made no move to answer. He couldn't help the flinch, though, as Enjolras' grip tightened to the point of being painful. He held his peace, however, biding his time in what he knew was a mounting storm.

Enjolras frowned mightily, baring his teeth as it became a snarl, a faint growl escaping as he shook the man fit to rattle the teeth in his skull. "Why us, Nicholas? Why did we survive when no one else did?" he snarled out, trying desperately to ignore the guilt engulfing him bit by bit. He looked away briefly, starting to chew his lower lip in anxiety. Anxiety at just what, the smaller man couldn't say. A further weight dropped as he remembered Marius. "Gods…Marius… It's my fault!" he cried out. "Should've died…would've been better if I had," he added on before his gaze focused on the one before him with furious intensity, bringing his wrath to bear down on him, voice rising to an anguished yell.

"You! Why did you save me? You–you drunken moron!" He knew he was the one who. deserved his hate and anger least, but his pain, hate, anger, and guilt all were desperately aiming for release and this seemed the only avenue. The barriers he'd raised in his mind to shield himself crumbled like the barricade had, and he couldn't help but start to cry, the sobs wracking his form. "Stupid drunk! Could have at least gotten me some wine! So easy for you!" He punched at his chest one-handed, his voice starting to crack and break with tears. "Why can't I forget?" The so-called drunken moron looked into the tearful eyes then, his own unglazed by any drink, and stated, "We can't forget our friends, Adrien. We may bury this failed coup with their bodies, clean up the blood from their faces, but we won't forget their lives or their deaths. Don't deserve that. None of them did you a single wrong that you would give them the penalty of forgetting they died for your cause–the cause they believed in in the end–and lived in part for you, if not for one another as friends. If I ever give you a drink, Adrien Enjolras, it will be to toast their memories, and nothing more." He pressed his fist over Enjolras' chest, where the blood still clung, wet, to his shirt. "We have survived the black night to find the red blood of our friends at our breasts at dawn, but our hearts still beat, so we will continue living. I saved you because you are all I have in this world, Apollo, and I would be damned to stand by and let you be snuffed out." He drew Enjolras into his arms and wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. "Are you hungry?" A shaken head. No, he wasn't hungry, even with the tears. Any appetite he'd had was long lost, chased off by the images his mind provided of that fateful last attack at the barricades, over and over and once more and again for good measure.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A/N: Much better length no? Once again great big thanks to Sparrah for helping me a) improve my tone b) writing Grantaire for me – I do try Grantaire but I generally just can't get my mind around his mindset.

Grantaire sighed faintly. This lack of food wouldn't aid recovery, much less put either of them in a better mood, but now didn't seem the time to stand and retrieve the bread and butter–butter, who was he all of a sudden, Monsier le Mayor? He put his arms tighter around Enjolras once more, smiling faintly as he felt the former leader of the students' resistance move closer to him, straddling his lap. It was a start, at least, even if he was only moving closer to find some way of staying sane. Nothing to get an erection over, he thought to himself, giving his cock a glower as he felt the blood slipping from his head southward. Enjolras shuddered against him, his eyes shut. For once, the drunkard prayed. Prayed that the man he worshiped as the light of his life, as the god of the very sun itself, wouldn't feel a certain something poking at him from below.

Enjolras moved closer still to the one who held him. The visions his memory provided wouldn't stop, no matter how much he wished they would. So much death…it was a waste. His grip on Grantaire tightened without his realising, almost clinging to him as a drowning swimmer would cling to a rope. Slowly, Enjolras raised his head, his eyes opening, troubled. He paused, hesitating briefly. This doubt was assuaged quickly enough as he felt something prod him mightily on the ass. His lips brushed against Grantaire's. Why he couldn't say. All he knew was some insane urge had gripped him, had driven him to do so, and the other man had only hardened his own resolve–and his need.

Slowly, he drew back enough to look up at him, regarding him contemplatively. Grantaire's face was flushed, the same dull pink as when he'd taken too much of the drink, except he panted now, and his lips were crushed together with the drunkard's. Their tongues wrestled with one another as their kiss deepened, held tight to one another until they were forced to draw back for breath, that coming through their noses not even half of enough for their burning lungs.

A soft half panted whine escaped Enjolras as his body took it on himself to remind him that he was in no real condition to continue. No matter how he longed to, he still hurt, not just physically but mentally. He kept his clinging grip to him head resting onto his shoulder still shuddering, the memories flooding back now the source of distraction had been removed. His brow furrowed as he struggled trying to force those thoughts down and away. He also couldn't help the jolt of panic as he was reminded once more when he tried to move his legs to get himself pressed closer that he had no feeling. There'd also been no sense of any form of motion. He shook more looking up at Grantaire slightly, wanting to forget all this worry, and the pain.

Grantaire looked back at him, confused as to what to do. Slowly, cautiously, he laid the man onto his back. What an odd pair they made, leader and drunkard, dreamer and cynic. Cupping his face between his hands, he kissed him again longingly before moving down his throat, pressing his lips to the hollow at its base, sucking lightly as he unbuttoned Enjolras' shirt. He didn't want to hurt him, or frighten him. He inched down the buttons one by one, glancing up after each, lips still pressed to his skin, asking silently, "Is this what you want?"

Enjolras relaxed faintly kissing back watching him. Other memories were coming to the front of his mind of the last time he'd been like this, though at that point less injured on the physical scale. That cruel eyed man was st–no it was only Nicholas. Nicholas wouldn't hurt him. He tried to focus on that thought instead of what else was been dredged up. He bit his lip, fighting his own fears now. The spy, he was here, he was sure. He whimpered softly "no…." he whispered out lost back into the memories, when no got nothing more than pain. "No!" he cried more insistently "I'll be good…. don't…. hurt me…please"

Grantaire bolted up, immediately freezing. When he saw the glazed look in Enjolras' eyes, he reached down and shook him by the shoulders, grasping his face between his hands and tapping it lightly. "Adrien. Adrien, Apollo, it's me. It's Nicholas. You're safe. Adrien, do you hear me? I won't let them harm you. I won't let him harm you. Je t'aime, Adrien Enjolras." Enjolras shook his eyes glazed for a few seconds longer pain and fear mingled as he came out of those memories though he looked at Grantaire "…sorry…" he whispered looking away, not wanting to meet eye contact, ashamed of his own weakness, still shaking at those memories coming to the fore. He'd tried even harder to quash those then the losses at the barricades.

"It is past, Adrien. It is done. Let it rest." Grantaire smoothed his hair back from his face, kissing his brow. "Let it rest, my love." A brighter flush darkened his cheeks. Enjolras frowned still shaking slightly "I'm….broken…" he whispered out softly, not only meaning in the physical sense but in the mental sense as well eyes closed faintly in an attempt to hold back tears at this damning thought. "No, you're not broken. And even if you are, I'll pick up your pieces and put you back together." Grantaire clutched at him. Now who was the drowning man? "I swear to you, I will. I will. I'll fix you." He was babbling and, or worse, a babbling liar, but he knew this and couldn't stop. "I'll fix you. You'll be all right. We'll be all right."

Enjolras frowned nodding, accepting his words as fact. He needed some hope, some small shred of hope that he'd get better. Even if it was just a lie, surely this was better than a life with nothing to hope for. It had to be… he needed a dream to cling to. Grantaire rubbed at his cheeks with his thumbs, kissing him gently. "Be my shtupid dreamer again. Dream for me, dream for yer cynic, Adrien." A wry smile curled his lips. "I can only have wet dreams, mind, my Apollo, so you'll have a tough time for it." Enjolras allowed himself a slight smile at that kissing back. He hugged him, holding him as he half dozed "Hard to dream with legs that still won't work Nicholas… but I'll try… I'll try so you don't have to give yourself a headache" he whispered out.

"Oho, you remember how I get headaches when sober and hard? So sweet of you, my sun," Grantaire half-joked, but glanced worriedly at Enjolras' legs. He ran a hand along them, chewing at his lip. Enjolras smiled at that slightly "why can't I feel them?" he asked quietly, not even able to feel Grantaires hand on them, though he knew it was there. Fear thrummed in the drunkard's chest to the tattoo of his heart, picking up its pace. He'll see a doctor tomorrow, that's what. He'll see one. He'll get better. Grantaire settled his head on Enjolras' belly. "Adrien…" Enjolras frowned slightly tugging him to where he could hug him "stay with me, while I sleep, I'm scared of my dreams…." he whispered out. "Of course." He put his arms around the other man once more, snuggling down into his neck. The only reaction from Enjolras was a very slight soft snore. He was asleep.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Forgive muses willing mind wasn't putting two and two together and making four. Once more thanks to sparrow for filling in Grantaire and been general epicly good where I fail at times**

Enjolras gaped at the doctor, unable to help the stupid blink that he finally gave at the words as their meaning sank into his brain. He understood what each word meant on its own, but strung together his mind wasn't willing to recognize them. Much less the truth in the statement. A frown creased his brow as he searched for any sign of a joke, lips working into a thin line, then pursing out once  
again. It had to be a joke–a joke in poor taste, but a joke nonetheless. It was impossible that it could be true… He looked toward Grantaire, where the man leaned against the wall outside the room, his hand covering his eyes, fingers and thumbs pressed to his temple, as if weeping.

"No," he whispered out. A smirk curled his features. "You're joking." The doctor shook his head. The smirk faded. "Then you must be lying to me." Another shake. A laugh burst from him as he shook his own head, almost in mockery of the man before him, "Oh, no, no, no, no. You must be some sort of quack; it's a misdiagnosis if not that. Nicholas, do you honestly believe him?" He looked toward Grantaire, who kept his position stalwardly, seeming unable to deviate from it. Enjolras bowed his head as, denying no longer, he groaned and pressed his face into his hands, rocking back and forth as he let out a gutteral sob. After a few moments of this, he said, "Get out."

"Monsieur," the doctor began.

"GET OUT!" Enjolras bellowed, lifting his head as quickly as if he would follow it up with a punch squarely to the man's big-nosed, sunken face. Grantaire was by his side in a trice, grasping his shoulders. "Adrien, enough," said the drunk, not quite so much a drunk in the past few weeks. Grantaire had remained determinedly sober as he helped him to recover enough to stand the doctor's visit. Now Enjolras wasn't sure if he wouldn't strangle or kiss the man–or both–before him. "Enough, mon ami."

"Monsieur," the man began again, "as I was going to say, there is hope that–"

"All I hear from you is meaningless yammering!" Enjolras roared. "Get your equipment and get out of my house!" Grantaire released his friend's shoulders and sighed, turning to show the man out. "Nicholas, where are you going?" A hint of fear showed in the man's voice where rage had been before. "I'm showing the man out," said the other man, gazing over his shoulder. "Fear not, mon soleil. Your wasted drunkard will return." Leading the doctor down to the door, he paused long enough to listen to what the man had to say before returning to the room above. Perhaps later he could have the former leader of the students' revolution see sense. For now, he would do as he had the last few weeks: comfort, encourage, and more than likely make him some food.

Enjolras had almost slumped in on himself once Grantaire had left with the doctor. Those words were what he was focusing on, he couldn't help it, nothing was there to distract him and they left a curiously hollow empty feeling coupled with absolute nausea. Maybe it would have been better had he died then stay living in this cage. To be trapped like a bird with clipped wings. What use were even dreams now? It wouldn't be like he could carry them through any time soon. He was stuck, left to waste away, stripped even of his own ability to remain independant. A small voice whispered that there was no need for true independance, that he had Grantaire now. But he was quick to quash that down. How long would that drunkard be willing to stay beside him before he got tired, bored of  
effectively playing nursemaid. Not long he was sure. There was so much more that he deserved, that he couldn't give him.

Grantaire peered into the room, looking at the downcast face that was almost to tears. He slipped his arms around the other man and pressed his head to his chest, stroking the dark hair. "Ne pleur pas, mon cher." He kissed his head. "We'll come through this." Enjolras looked up at him "how long before 'we' becomes just 'you'll' Nicholas?" he whispered out taking the comfort while he could. Part of him knew he should be trying to push him away but he didn't want to. He wanted to enjoy the comfort, the contact while he could. Before he lost the one human he'd had regular contact with since….. then. "You'll grow bored, tired of having to care for me… you deserve better then what I can offer Nicholas," he added on "I'd… just be…holding you back as it is now, after all what have I got to dream for now?"

Grantaire looked at him, apalled. "Never say that about me again, Apollo." His fists shook as their clenched around Enjolras' shirt sleeves. "If those men from the guard had lined you up in a firing squad and asked any of those men from the ABC to step forward, none would have but I!" He shook him furiously. "What gall gives you the right to–to–" Words failing him, Grantaire left him to rampage about the room to and fro, throwing out various insults and expletives at no one, grasping at his hair, kicking the wall until he was calm. Then he stood breathing heavily, his brow pressed to the wall, the flat of his fist beating the wood as a choked noise left his throat.

Enjolras watched him quietly…sadly almost. He couldn't stop the doubt in his mind, part of him was even saying he deserved it. Deserved to be alone. After all those students that had died. Maybe this was his punishment? He just knew that was what happened though. Despite every good intention the cripple, the dependant eventually died, either they killed themselves dooming themselves to hell or they were killed. Grantaire turned toward him slowly, tears streaming from his eyes down his red-cheeked face. He fell to his knees, grasping Enjolras about the waist and burying his face into his belly. He mumbled brokenly into his shirt, not really noticing what came from his lips other than it was meant to bring his Adrien out of this despondancy.

Enjolras sighed softly, he could…pretend though….couldn't he? Pretend that he truly believed that Nicholas wouldn't leave him? Surely that was…just a dream? An…unattainable one but…it was a dream right? "I'm…. sorry to doubt you," he said quietly gently stroking his hair gently, he couldn't kill the doubt in his heart or mind, but he'd…at least try and pretend. Whimpering, the blubbering man keened and nuzzled at his belly, kissing his thigh, trailing his lips up to his Adam's apple and beyond to press salty lips over his sun's. "I won't leave you, I swear. I swear, I swear, I swear on me favorite bottle, I swear on all the Bibles of the world, I swear," he said, feeling that if he said it often enough, fervently enough, he could impart the truth of his words to the man that now was sprawled beneath him.

Enjolras couldn't help but to return the kisses hiding the doubt as best as he could manage mentally throwing himself the task of dreaming this dream and hoping it to be a reality "I can't…walk…." he whispered out "I can't….use my legs…. I'm…damaged…." he was almost parroting the doctors words his mind coming back to them despite his attempts to push those away kissing Nicholas again. This…. sudden dependancy didn't particularly sit well with him…. the fact he'd need help with almost everything. It… just left him feeling useless. "You can still get around." An idea had formed in Grantaire's head. The man was grinning lopsidedly. "I'll have a present for you in a few days, if you'll give me that time, oui?" He tilted his head, eyes almost pleading with Enjolras. The frown that had been present only deepened at the strange words the strange request.

He nodded though trying to quash the growing doubt that was just accelerating at hearing that sure that it meant that he was going to leave him in those few days "Oui…." he said quietly, hesitantly. Grantaire smiled, then snapped back to what he'd been secreting away after leading the doctor to their place. "A moment, mon amor," he said quickly, hurrying down the stairs so quickly he mistepped and tumbled the rest of the way down on his ass. "Sacre bleu!" he swore, before hauling himself up and stumbling to the hiding place.

Enjolras tried to rest, finding himself staring at the ceiling instead, everything echoing in his head. He frowned feeling a ghostly hand touch his own. He turned his head, no one was there… a shape in the window… "Feuilly?" he asked more to himself than anyone else, not that there was anyone in the room, he'd cracked he was certain. But it seemed so…real. He had to be t-no he'd died! His attention drifted as he heard the sounds of Grantaire climbing back up the stairs, looking away briefly, when he looked back Feuilly had disappeared… if he'd even been there at all.

Grantaire climbed up the stairs as quickly as he'd come down, slipping and landing hard on his chest. Grunting, he pulled himself up and into the room again, grinning. "I've got it, Adrien. Close your eyes." Enjolras frowned, shakily closing his eyes though sure he'd just seen Feuilly, making a note to bring that up with Grantaire after this…whatever….this was…. he wasn't sure but anything to keep him happy till he left him right? Kneeling down, Grantaire took his hand and said, "Open your eyes, cher." When he had, the man slipped a small wooden band around his finger–a ring. Enjolras looked at the ring, then at Grantaire, his mind not quite understanding "a…. a ring?" he asked curiousity piqued a faint frown showing through, indicating the lack of comprehension, his mind once again not getting four from putting two and two together.


End file.
